


Due to Crisis

by laceblade



Series: truth in the thunder / love in the lightning [1]
Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 08:12:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11642490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laceblade/pseuds/laceblade
Summary: In which Lovett is kidnapped by the Russians.If he doesn’t come back, will everything always be this quiet and fucking sad?





	Due to Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> RPF is for us. Please do not share it with anyone connected to Pod Save America.
> 
> Be cool, people.

They hadn’t expected to win, but they had. Trump’s presidency had been a fucking nightmare, and Paul Ryan and Mitch McConnell were two of the biggest cowards who’d ever lived, but they’d gotten through it. They’d made it.

When Pfeiffer calls him, Favs, and Lovett to talk about where they were going to end up in the new administration, Tommy feels like he’s 28 again in face of all the responsibilities. “I don’t know if I’m qualified to—”

Pfeiffer and Lovett respond in unison. “Tommy. Shut up.”

 

\---

 

And that was that.

It’s now his second day in his new office. His secretary has already learned not to bother stopping Pfeiffer in the entryway - there is no pretense, no meeting, that Tommy could possibly have that would trump Pfeiffer. Tommy always had time for Pfeiffer, and even if the President herself was in his office, Pfeiffer could interrupt at will.

So Tommy’s door swings open without preamble, and Pfeiffer’s pointing at the TV mounted up in the corner while walking towards his desk. “You know, I’m really proud of you for not having turned that on yet.”

“House isn’t in session yet,” Tommy replies, glancing up from his phone. “When it is, C-SPAN can go on. And _only_ C-SPAN. Until then, I don’t care what any of those jokers are saying.”

“Uh-huh. And how’s your twitter feed?” Pfeiffer asks, setting a piece of paper in the middle of his desk with a smirk.

“Okay, you have a point,” Tommy says sheepishly, setting the phone down.

“We should just uninstall these anyway,” Pfeiffer says, waving a hand at the TV, “Nobody uses them.”

Tommy finally glances down at the document Pfeiffer has placed on his desk.

“SF 86? Oh wow, I have to fill this out again?”

“Yes, Tommy. Turns out the government does want to know about any life events that have happened in the past eleven years. Like they might be relevant or something… Anyway. Fill it out again, like you’ve never done it before. Don’t worry about whether it matches 100% with the one you did for Obama. How you perceive yourself now is actually more important than being absolutely factual. What we need to know - what they need to know - I know you know this but - they need to know how you can be exploited.”

The seriousness of his job weighs on him as Dan walks out of the room without bothering to say goodbye because they’ll being walking back and forth for the next four years like every day is an ongoing conversation. He thinks again about where he’s sitting. That he’s working for POTUS. Again. ANOTHER POTUS. Because this is now the second one he’s worked for.

He takes a deep breath, then starts in on his form. He gets pulled away from it for meetings about North Korea, about Syria, about Russia. He forgets about lunch and he’s getting hungry as dinner time passes by, too.

Occasionally, though, he smiles to himself because Lovett and Favreau are meeting him at the end of the day, and he’s looking forward to their company no matter how tired he is.

When he finally finishes the SF 86 and leaves around 7pm, Lovett is blowing up his phone telling him to leave the building before he sends in Pundit with a strike team to extract him.

 

\---

 

He’s still thinking of this absurd threat when he walks into the bar, grinning. Favs sees him first and lifts his chin (he does it back). Raising his hand to flag the waitress, he slides into the booth while Lovett leans forward over the table.

“You look like you just got fucked on the way over or something. What makes you smile like that?”

“Just you, Lovett,” Tommy says with a wink. “Only you can make me smile like that.” He lets his smile grow beatifically.

“Wait, really?” asks Lovett, excited. “Please don’t tell me if you’re lying because I’m just going to pretend that it’s true.”

“It _is_ true, dumbass,” says Tommy, breaking into a laugh. “Nobody else makes me laugh like you do. It was your texts on the way over here, making me smile.”

Lovett cocks his head while fluttering his eyelashes, holding his chin against his clasped hands.

“God, don’t inflate his ego, Tommy.” Favreau makes a noise of disgust into his beer just as he’s lifting it to take a drink. “He doesn’t need it.”

“Ugh, I _do_ need it, Favs. It’s been three days since someone last asked me whether I was sure I didn’t want a job in the White House - pointing out that I’d be REALLY GOOD at it, obviously - long enough to make a man question his own reputation. Makes a guy question his _friends_.”

Favreau bows his head over his beer, giggling quietly.

“So, Tommy, what’d you do today?” Lovett turns toward him. “Do you have any state secrets you can share with me and Jon? I’ve got Kislyak here on my speed dial, so I’m ready.”

Both he and Jon are laughing hard when the waitress comes back with a beer for Tommy and some food menus.

“It was actually SF 86 day,” Tommy informs them, taking his first sip of beer and licking the foam off his lips.

He catches Lovett having gone still next to him, out of the corner of his eye, but forgets as soon as Favs starts talking.

“God. If we tell them we’re going to legalize weed within the next three months, d’you think they’ll just let me leave all of that off?”

“I am so glad I don’t have to fill that out again,” Lovett says. Then, laughing, “I can’t even remember how much drugs I’ve done since I left. Many? Much? Anyway, A LOT. And it was fucking glorious every time.”

“Yeah that section was a little brutal for me, so I think you’d need to request about fifteen supplementary pages to fill it out, Lovett. They also wanted to know who could document that we paid all the Crooked Media bills full-up. Plus a list of everyone who ever bought an ad on the pods.”

“Good thing there’s only like, five. Blue Apron, Tommyjohn, Squarecash…” Lovett quips. “Also, I’d really like to see an underwear company get involved in an extortion scenario, like how would that even work?”

Tommy and Favs both giggle.

“God,” Favreau says, taking another pull of beer. “Remember how many times Kushner had to amend his SF 86? I still can’t fucking believe—”

“Stop,” Lovett cut him off. “DO NOT. If we start, we’ll never stop. _I’ll_ never stop.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Tommy fills up with gratitude all over again at how thankful he is that it’s over, Trump’s gone, that they’ve already started making things _right_ again, that they’re already drafting legislation to make sure that kind of shit can never happen again and that Congress is more than willing to pass all of it.

Lovett interrupts his reverie.

“Did you see Weigel’s tweet storm today? He’s really starting to piss me off, but it’s mostly because I know he’s always right. And so even when I _disagree_ with him, I know it’s just a matter of time - usually 6 weeks to 3 months - before I realize he was right all along. And I HATE it.”

“Whatever, Lovett, you’d be bored within three hours if there weren’t eight things for you to be ranting about or fuming at simultaneously!”

Tommy chuckles as he sips his beer again. He’d been worried that working for the POTUS this time around wouldn’t feel the same as last time. That it wouldn’t be as fun, or that it wouldn’t feel as incredible. And while it’s true that it’s not exactly the same, the magic is still there, and it’s absolutely because of the people closest to him.

   

\---

 

Russian political interference and hacking are not things that ever really stopped or went away, and it’s not like people hadn’t anticipated it. It’s just that they were focused on it as it pertained to voting and journalism. Data security.

They’d been having meetings about new and different kinds of warfare. Of Russians and terrorists using social media to learn personal details about people’s lives to identify better targets, to pick off and destabilize essential political figures. Of hacking into power grids and partisan phone bank databases.

They’d been brief on the possibilities, but nobody had expected it would start happening so fast, or that they themselves would be the targets.

Which is all to say, nobody them to seek leverage over White House _staff_. It’s not like Crooked Media was a quiet company, and Tommy and Favreau both had decent name recognition for White House senior staff even though they’re not as involved in policy decisions as, say, DeRay.

But six months later, when Lovett gets kidnapped the day after missile strikes start hitting Ukraine, Tommy feels like he still should have seen this coming.

   

 ---

 

Favreau’s in his office when he’s halfway through the first twitter thread of rumors. “Jesus Christ, Tommy, I can’t— just, what the _fuck_?”

Part of Tommy’s brain is noting that he should be on the phone already trying to get a hold of his guy in the CIA and figure out what the hell is going on, but this is _Lovett_ , and he blinks, realizing that he’s been frozen in his chair, staring at his computer monitor.

He forces himself to speak.

“Where’s POTUS?”

“What? God, I don’t know.” Favreau’s running his hand through his hair. “Some talks with Booker, I think? Legislative agenda shit. Weren’t you guys having like a 3-hour Sit Room meeting after that? Christ.” Favs flops down in the chair on the other side of Tommy’s desk, and lapses into silence.

Martina comes in. “Tommy, Claire is on line one for you.” That’s his CIA guy. Tommy makes eye contact with Favreau as he reaches for the phone.

This will be the clarification that there’s been a misunderstanding.

Or not.

“Tommy, we need your deputy to get over here and be briefed. The Lovett thing is real. We haven’t figured out who they are yet. But we have some details and she’ll get ‘em to you.”

“I should— Can I come? I mean, is it okay if I come?”

Favreau opens his mouth, watching him with growing concern, but seems to think better of it.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

“Sorry, Tommy. Their goal in doing this is to knock you off your feet, and pull you off of Ukraine messaging. You, specifically. Well, you and Favreau. They know public support for NATO allies is weak, especially those on the border. They’ve been putting a lot of misinformation online about Ukrainians wanting to reunite with Russia. POTUS needs you to pull this off, and the Russians know if they lose this one, they’re going to have to drop Ukraine and Crimea altogether. You have to stay there. Focus. Don’t give ‘em what they want. Because then they’ll know this tactic works. I know it’s hard, but I promise you that we will get Lovett back. They won’t kill him - they wouldn’t dare. So we’ll get him. We’ve got this. They’re not getting far.”

“Right,” Tommy says. His mind had snagged on “kill” and seemed to take a few seconds to let go of it. “Sorry. I know that. I mean, I should. I mean…of course. Sorry. I—thank you.” He sets the phone back in its cradle.

Favreau leans forward, pressing his face into his palms, elbows balanced on his knees.

“I miss Barack,” he says quietly. Normally Tommy would chastise him for that, but today he says nothing. There’s nothing to say.

Obama could do his own press briefings, including the Q&As, on any topic, without notes. [Notes would make the briefings _better_ , but the man could do it passably without.] It wasn’t like the current POTUS was Trump-levels of incoherence or ignorance, but she had gotten elected because of her domestic agenda. She didn’t have much of a foreign one, and was happy to leave decisions about things like that to her cabinet and to her advisers. She didn’t care, and left to her own devices, it would show. Any time POTUS talked about foreign policy, she left her sentences unfinished, sometimes even lost her thread of thought. It unsettled the shit out of some of their allies, and everyone was committed to bending over backwards to clean up after the diplomatic clusterfuck that had been the Trump presidency.

It was actually the focus of most of the conversations that Tommy and Favs had had over the past year, because they’d been pretty sure where Tommy would end up in this administration, and POTUS’s ignorance had been a concern to both of them. They’d agreed that between the two of them, they would carry her through her first term. It was a heavy load they’d jointly lifted off Pfeiffer’s shoulders.

Alone, Favreau could prep the POTUS, could write some great words, but he didn’t know the policy shit like Tommy did.

The whole goal of this week was to convince the public that it was absolutely necessary to aid Ukraine, to honor NATO, and to stop the Russians from encroaching on the territory of other sovereign nations. They’d acknowledged the missile strikes as a possibility months ago, but the likelihood had seemed remote. No more.

There’d been an emergency meeting Sunday night, outlining the messaging plan for the rest of the week based on what Tommy was pretty sure would be the decisions that were coming in the Sit Room. Focus on the humanitarian crisis, the civilian casualties. Next, trash all of the Russian misinformation put on places like Breitbart and InfoWars; remind people why it was absurd to think that actual Ukrainians would want to rejoin Russia. Fall back on day 3, have the NATO allies continue to make statements, rally support, and let them propose a counterstrike. Push some of their friends and Russian-hating enemies in Congress to call for retaliation, and then swoop in on Friday with their proposed plan.

A pleasing narrative arc made possible by the manipulation of public perception. Tommy remembered feeling disillusioned and disgusted at first when he’d started as Obama’s NSC Spokesperson. But over time, he’d learned so much more about every issue, and began to respect the fact that very few Americans were as educated as they’d need to be in order to have an informed opinion on this issue. On any issue. It was the President’s job to make the decisions. It was his and Favreau’s to convince everyone that the decisions were correct, to break them down into concepts understandable to as many people as possible, and to draw a line of continuity back to the messaging POTUS had used during her campaign.

Which was all to say: Tommy was absolutely not allowed to lose his shit. Not even now.

He sighs suddenly, realizing he’d been holding his breath. He stands up.

“ _Fuck_ the Russians, fuck Vladimir Putin, and just—FUCK!” he gritted. He slams his laptop shut.

Favreau rises, too. He offers no commentary on Tommy’s outburst, but doesn’t seem judgmental either. Just grim. “Grab your notes from Sunday, I’m going to run and get my pen. We’ll find the Joint Chiefs and tighten up our statements for this afternoon’s press briefing.” He’s already on his way towards the door.

Tommy grabs a legal pad off his desk as well as a pen.

He has a sudden thought. “Pundit?” he calls after Jon.

“Emily’s got her,” Jon calls back.

 

 

\---

 

That night, Tommy lies awake on his back in Favs’ and Emily’s guest bedroom. Pundit had trotted from room to room for half an hour after he and Favs got back, trying to find Lovett. It had been funny and adorable, but then moreso sad and also pretty eerie.

Emily had left them food in the fridge. Way more edible than the garbage takeout they ate when they got home after long days, back under Obama.

Secret Service are outside. Which is new. And unsettling.

Pundit’s licking his arm. He rolls over to his side and swings his hand down so that he can pet her more easily. “Hey, girl. You can come up here. Come on.” He pats the bed, and Pundit jumps up, taking a step forward to lick his forehead and then starts turning in circles while pawing at the bed sheet. She sighs as she flops down, curling up and tucking her nose down by her paws.

Tommy continues petting her absently, and realizes he can feel tears burning the sides of his eyes. He closes his eyes and tries to empty his thoughts. Breathe in deeply.  
But all he can think about is Lovett - with a wicked grin, and then leaning back in open-mouthed laughter, and then watching Tommy’s face closely for a reaction to a joke; then, Lovett afraid, someone hitting Lovett, Lovett shouting in pain.

Okay - _clear_ the thoughts. Breathe in deeply.

Tommy doesn’t sleep.

 

 ---

 

Every single person he encounters the next day makes a point of asking him how he’s doing, how Favs is doing. After the first seven times, Tommy stops keeping track of how he answers these questions, but usually as upbeat as possible because that’s what ends the conversation the quickest.

Finally, they leave their deputies behind and go hole up in Favs’s office with the door shut so that they can actually get some work done.

The two of them don’t have to talk about Lovett; they only have to look one another from time to time, or catch the other zoning out, to know that both their thoughts are drifting to the same place, constantly.

 

\--- 

 

Emily brings the dogs to visit midday with some lunch that she’d actually just bought down in the canteen because she knew neither of them would go down there themselves today.

It’s not like Tommy ever disliked the dogs, but he’s pretty sure he’s never been so grateful for Pundit’s licks, for her being unreservedly being happy to see him. For her soft, warm body, which is very comforting in the air conditioning.

She smells like Lovett [also, like dog] despite having stayed at Favreaus’ last night.

Emily doesn’t ask how their communications prep is going, or anything about Lovett.

When she leaves, she points at Tommy on her way out. “You’re allowed to stop at home to pack some clothes and toiletries, but then you’re coming back. You stay with us, until—” her voice hitches and Tommy feels his stomach clench. She rubs a tear off her cheek with the heel of her hand, and Jon walks over to give her a hug.

This is normally when Lovett would make a comment about how awkward PDA was, but Tommy doesn’t feel awkward at all as he scruffs the top of Leo’s head before moving to scritch Pundit behind the ear.

All he feels is dread.

 

\---

 

After promising Emily they’d get home by 8, they don’t get home until 1:30am.

Favs had actually been ready to leave around eleven, but Tommy kept walking around with tomorrow’s remarks rolled up in his hand, tapping them against his leg while he paced.

“These comments are done,” Favs says. “They’re good. They’re fine.”

“Just…not yet,” Tommy says. He sits down at his desk again, turns the printed pages over to their blank sides, and starts writing some sentences.

Favs doesn’t ask what he’s doing, whether he’s changing something or writing new stuff.

It’s weird for Tommy to be in a writing groove in the first place. Usually that’s Favs, or it’s Lovett, although Lovett actually likes to dictate the most. Tommy’s better in front of a microphone, taking questions, complimenting journalists, and greasing the skids.

But he’s been taken by a thread of thought, stemming from the anger he felt yesterday and that’d been simmering all day.

Not enough time had passed for a poll to be conducted about public opinion for defending Ukraine since the missile strike started on Friday night. But he’d read enough hot takes on twitter to have a general idea of at least one segment of isolationists.

It didn’t matter if they stuck their head in the sand; clearly, Putin would come anyway. He’d taken Crimea without much blowback, he manipulated the last election, he murdered Russian dissidents living in countries like the U.S., and now some of his guys had fucking taken Lovett. And some people wanted to just roll over for him and let him take Ukraine, like this was Hitler going for Czechoslovakia.

Where the hell was the backbone, where was the sense of duty to honor treaties to people who were their friends, and who relied on their firepower to provide security?

He writes paragraphs like he hadn’t in a long time.

Finally, he sets his pencil down and sits back. Then he picks up the papers and hands them to Favs. “Maybe we don’t even need any of it. And probably you’ll need to make it sound better…”

Favs is already only half-listening, reading closely to parse Tommy’s handwriting and occasionally scratching some notes in the margins in pen.

“No, man, this is actually. Really good,” says Favs.

Tommy smiles, feeling happy. “Really?” He doesn’t even care that Favreau sounds surprised. He and Lovett are miles above Tommy’s writing level, so he’ll take what he can get.

“Yeah,” says Favs. Then frowns. “Liiiiittle heavy on the jingoism, though, buddy, but I can work through this.”

“Ugh, I _do_ do that. It’s gross,” says Tommy, scrubbing his palms over his face. “Fix all of that, please,” he says, waving his hand.

Favs looks up and then smiles gently at him. “Let’s go home, buddy. You did good. Maybe now you’ll actually sleep tonight.”

Sometimes Lovett and Favs talked about how great it felt to get through cathartic writing, how if they knew they’d really nailed something, they felt like kings even if just for an hour.

After the glow of Favs’s compliment fades a little, though, Tommy doesn’t feel good, or satisfied. He feels empty, and above everything else, afraid. Then, angry.

 

\---

 

Anyway, 1:30 is earlier than three, but he’s pretty sure Emily won’t be happy with them in the morning, and he’s trying to be quiet. He almost trips walking through the door because Pundit is sprawled in the entryway, right in front of the door, like she knew he or Lovett still had to come for her, and she wasn’t going to bed without them.

“Hi, Pundit,” whispers Tommy, using the gentle voice he saves for small children and old ladies. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Yeah, I miss your daddy, too. But you’re a good dog. Yes, you’re a good girl. Let’s take you outside,” he says, and she leaps up at the word “outside.”

Favs smiles indulgently at him, and then disappears down the hallway to go be by Emily and Leo.

 

Outside, Tommy sits and lets his legs hang off the wooden deck, waiting for Pundit to do her business, scanning the ground for any sizable twigs.

Favreau’s house is just really fucking nice, and Tommy can’t help but think of the shithole place he and Lovett shared when they worked in the Obama White House.

He and Lovett have shared a lot, and the sense of loss he feels is just overwhelming every time he allows himself to acknowledge it.

If Lovett doesn’t come back, will everything always be this quiet and fucking sad?

How’s he going to bounce back after soul-sucking meetings about global tragedies every day if Lovett’s not there peppering him with quips, tending to his mood nearly every night after work?

He draws his knees up, rests his crossed arms on them, and rocks forward to rest his forehead, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the night air.

The twists in his gut have been intense, and on top of being scared shitless, he keeps trying to interrogate whether he feels like this because Jon is one of his best friends? Or whether his unplanned absence is making Tommy realize that his feelings for Lovett are not the same as his feelings about Favs.

 

\---

 

The next day, Tommy’s in the room when POTUS gets briefed on the FBI strike team that’s going in to get Lovett. He gets the alerts throughout their Sit Room conference about Ukraine.

Nobody’s said it aloud, but it would be really great if they could announce Lovett’s recovery in the same briefing in which they previewed POTUS’s announcements about NATO retaliation strikes. He’d love to say that optics were the furthest thing from his mind, but that’s just not how his brain operates. Lovett would understand that just as well as Favs, if he were here.

It’s not impossible to concentrate on Ukraine because the FBI has got this. And even though he knows the statistics on the likelihood of hostages getting killed being the highest during rescue attempts, he keeps focusing on what Claire had said on the phone when this shit first started: “They wouldn’t dare.”

 

\---

 

They end up recapturing Lovett mid-afternoon, at which point he’s taken off for a medical exam and FBI debriefing. Tommy tries not to think too hard about why the medical exam is necessary. There’s a pleasant blur of elation in the background during all of his meetings, though, and Tommy feels euphoric even through the fugue of exhaustion that seems to be hanging.

 

\--- 

 

In the early evening, Tommy knows Lovett is nearby when he hears an incongruous giggle out in the hallway. He hasn’t heard anybody laugh all week; everyone’s been walking on eggshells since Monday, and the building is usually quieter overall when any kind of military operation was going on. Most of them had started as congressional aides, campaign aides, and worked their way up. Security and military issues involved people _dying_ in a way that was much less immediate than the after effects of health care or tax structures. They weren’t orchestrating, but rather were being directed. Watching things unfold.

It was as bad as being on the outside.

There’s some muffled conversation outside the door, Lovett saying, “No, really, thanks. Tommy’s got bottled water and probably some freakishly protein-laden healthy stuff in this over-sized office of his, don’t worry about it.”

He’s letting himself in, and Tommy’s already moving across the room. He slows down as he takes in Jon’s left arm, cradled in a sling. His black eye, his split lip. In addition to feeling concerned, the low warmth that had been pooling in his stomach ever since he knew Lovett had been rescued, has spread, and seeing him right in front of him made Tommy feel like his skin was on fire.

“God,” Tommy breathes, stopping just in front of him.

Lovett shifts a little awkwardly, then winces. He offers Tommy a small smile. “Would you believe that my Russian accent has been totally off this whole time? Unbelievable.”  
A laugh breaks in Tommy’s chest and he steps forward, wrapping Lovett in a hug. He doesn’t say anything, just buries his face in his shoulder

God.

He hadn’t realized how many possibilities he’d been entertaining, subconsciously. To be _glad_ to see Lovett _maimed_ was a little crazy. He tightens his hug, reassuring himself by holding tight to the solid form right in front of him - _he’s here, he’s right here_.

For once, Lovett doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t wrest the gravity of the moment away or claim it as his own. He just hugs Tommy back, one-armed, face pressed against his chest although it’s not like he has much choice about it.

His voice is muffle by Tommy’s suit coat. “It’s so…clean in here. Soft lights. Furniture with cloth, and no sharp edges. No weapons in here, even!”

Tommy frowns as as he pulls back, taking in Lovett’s face again.

His eyes.

His hair.

Someone had gotten him to a shower and given him some clean clothes.

Lovett reaches out to fold Tommy’s lapel back the right way, it having gotten mussed from their hug. His gaze is fixed on Tommy’s tie.

“Jon,” Tommy says, and Lovett’s eyes flicker up briefly and then back down again, like he’s not trusting himself to see who’s in front of him.

“I’m just so, so…glad,” Tommy whispers fiercely. “You have no idea.”

Lovett scratches the back of his head and then points at his blackened eye. “Well, I have _some_ idea. I’m pretty glad to be out of there too, you know,” he says, offering a smile.

“No, I mean…just. God. Sometimes you just don’t realize where your head’s at, what your feelings are, until something blows it all out of the water…”

Lovett’s looking at him questioningly, like he’s not following. He opens his mouth, but falls quiet as Tommy’s fingers lightly trace a cut on the side of his face. He’s allowing himself to meet Tommy’s eyes again, now.

“Knife,” Lovett says softly. “Hey, d’you think it’ll scar?” he asks brightly. “I’d be like a pirate. Or a badass, anyway.”

“I don’t know, man,” Tommy said, hand still there, eyes taking in the other abrasions on his face. “Jesus.”

Lovett doesn’t seem sure what to do with his hand, and he reaches out for Tommy’s lapel again. Just fingers the fabric, and then lets his hand drop away suddenly.

“Sorry. Not trying to have a _gay_ moment or anything, you know,” Lovett gushes. “Just. Feelings. Adrenaline. Low blood sugar. I’m s’posed to be sitting down, they think I’m weak as shit—”

Tommy’s catches Lovett’s active hand while Lovett’s still pulling it away, and takes a step forward. His heart keeps catching inside his chest, and it feels like there’s something stuck in his throat.

He reaches his arm around Lovett’s waist, meaning to brace him and help him hold steady.

Lovett turns and leans into him, heavily, and makes a breathy whimper that makes Tommy’s belly swoop. He freezes. God help him, but that noise Lovett made has caused the fire on his skin to spread inside, every part of him singing.

He hadn’t meant to induce that, though. Had he? Maybe Lovett was just in pain, and he’d misread the meaning of the noise.

“I was just going to help you to a chair…” he offers quietly, to Lovett’s hair, giving him an out.

“Oh, the _fuck_ you were, Tommy” Lovett says, and his lips carefully press a question on to Tommy’s. Then he pulls back just as gently. Tommy inhales sharply, and Lovett’s watching for his reaction.

Tommy’s lips are burning where Lovett kissed him. He’s still cradling the small of Lovett’s back, but turns to bring his other hand up to the back of Jon’s neck, tracing lightly, looking for cuts and watching for winces indicating bruises.

He answers Lovett’s quiet question with a kiss of his own. He leans in, and then, moving very slowly, smiles as he explores the curls at the nape of Jon’s neck with his fingers, kissing him chastely on the lips again and again, then lingering on his upper lip with the slightest suck. Lovett’s mouth falls open under his, and then Tommy’s kissing him deeply, letting his tongue melt into Lovett’s.

A small moan escapes from Tommy while he does this, and Lovett’s knees buckles a little.

Tommy holds him tighter around the waist, anchoring him. “I’ve got you,” Tommy says.

Jon sighs a little, then smiles while running his free hand up and down Tommy’s chest.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re like, super hot?” Lovett asks, his hand warm where it’s resting on Tommy. Only a few layers of fabric are separating their bodies. “Especially in that Indochino suit, mmph,” Lovett continues. “Honestly, it’s kind of unfair.” He kisses Tommy’s chin so that Tommy turns down toward him, and their mouths meet again.

Tommy smiles through their kisses. “You do seem pretty into it, though,” he says.

“God, shut up,” Lovett says, his voice a little shaky. He’s never heard him like this before.

It’s really hot.

“Just take me home with you!”

Tommy’s hands tense where they have hold of Jon’s body.

“Really? I mean, you don’t want to go home first? You—?”

“Vietor, if you don’t take me home and fuck me _right now_ , I swear—”

Tommy laughs.

“God. Yes,” he kisses Lovett again.

He’s pretty sure he’s going to sleep just fine tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out [But if I know you, I know what you'll do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410659) by [hopefor46](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefor46/pseuds/hopefor46), which is a remix of this fic. It's a Sleeping Beauty fairy tale au, it uses some lines and situations from this fic, and it is pretty much perfect.


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